Mages and Men
by xxsewnlipsxx
Summary: Hawke couldn't kill Anders, but she's on her own now. Can a meeting by chance make everything okay again? Female Hawke/Anders.


**Title: Mages and Men**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Hawke couldn't kill Anders, but she's on her own now. Can a meeting by chance make everything okay again? Female Hawke/Anders.**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

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Mages and Men

She tipped the glass back and felt the burning alcohol swirl around in her mouth before she swallowed. It was bitter and tasted like the swill they served at the Hanged Man. How Isabela was still alive after drinking so much, Hawke would never understand. It got the job done, though, bringing a pleasant buzzing into her limbs and wetting her dry lips. She signaled for more, and the elf bartender obliged her. Her coin was good. Hopefully, with what she had left, she could get as drunk as she pleased.

The name of the tavern she didn't know. All she did know was that after four days of walking around in the rain outside of Kirkwall while the Templars tore the place apart looking for her, everyone scrambling for a leader to _help _or do _anything_, she was tired. She needed a place to rest. Whatever this tavern was, poor and rundown and full of suspicious individuals, it did have warm soup and a fireplace and a room waiting for her upstairs that she had paid for through the week. Hawke had never needed much to be content. Just to be clean and dry and full was a blessing anymore. She sagged her head and stared into the yellow liquid in her cup.

Unlike the ale in the Hanged Man, this was sweet. It almost tasted like wine. She smiled as a sudden thought of Fenris came to mind, his taut and controlled demeanor cracking as he tossed an old bottle at the wall of his mansion. She had a feeling that he had fled with Isabela on her ship. He wouldn't look her in the eye, not after his initial betrayal. In the end, she had convinced him to defend the mages. That was a feat in and of itself, and she had been so relieved. Whatever they were, she had considered him a friend. His loss would have weighed on her mind.

While thinking of the past, she felt her stomach clench involuntarily. Anders came to mind, the very reason that she was on the run. Because of him, an entire world had been shattered. The grand cleric was dead. Meredith was dead. Hundreds of mages resorting to blood magic were free to wreak havoc, and she had chosen to defend them. No one was in charge anymore, and she could remember the feeling of his betrayal like a punch to the gut. It tore the wind from her lungs. It made anger burn in her veins so powerful that she thought she might set something on fire right then and there. Clenching the pewter cup her hand, she tried to regain control over her emotions.

She could remember his face so desolate and lost. Oh, he fully understood the price of the freedom he'd fought for. He knew that he would be branded a murderer, potentially hated by everyone. Hawke had wanted to. With all of her heart and soul, she had wanted to hate him. All she could feel was anger at his betrayal, though. His lack of trust in her had been so painfully absolute that her fingers had, for an instant, twitched toward her knife. And ending his miserable existence would have been for the better. She hadn't been strong enough to do that, though. She hadn't been merciful enough to do that either.

She had grabbed his robes and hauled him to his feet. The cold in her voice had made him flinch, the steely look on her face reflected in his bottomless eyes. They were eyes that had once looked at her with love brimming over. "Stand up and fight. I'm not going to clean up this mess by myself. When we're done, you can pick a direction and walk. If I'm not too tired, I might toss a blade at your back," she had spat, shoving him backwards so he staggered several feet. Then Sebastian had started up, claiming that if she did not kill him, he would leave. He would go to Starkhaven and bring back an army to hunt her _precious _Anders down.

The prince hadn't expected the punch to bust his lip. He hadn't expected the cold fury in her eyes as she declared, "Then leave and hunt him as you will. For now, he fights under my banner until he helps fix what he broke." She had plucked her staff from the ground and gestured for them to follow her.

And at the end while standing in the Gallows where they had made their last stand, she had refused to speak with him. He had begged her to go on the run with him, but she had retained her cool demeanor. She would let him walk, but she would not go with him. The look on his face had been oddly satisfying, yet her heart had ached while she said it.

Hawke sipped at the ale, letting the cloy flavor linger on her teeth and tongue. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, and a look cast behind made her roll her eyes.

"I don't need your services tonight, Krista," she said, gesturing to the bartender for more ale. She tossed five silver on the counter and grabbed the neck of the bottle. Taking a swig of that, she felt the warm feeling in her belly spread, tingling in her toes.

The whore crossed her arms and leaned against the bar. "Oh, but we had so much fun," she cooed, breasts thrust forward, back arched. Mischief glittered in her eyes.

"We did," Hawke agreed solemnly, turning around her chair and leaning her elbows behind to stare out at the ragged misfits sitting at the tables. The bottle was heavy in her hand. "Last night I needed sex. Tonight I need to get drunk. You don't fit into that plan." Watching the whore out of the corner of her eye, she took another long dreg and reveled in the way it burned her throat.

"Most people like both," Krista argued.

"Another evening," Hawke dismissed, holding up the bottle to the bartender and then leaning down to haul her backpack over her shoulder. It was wet with rain, filled to the brim with supplies she'd need for the next few weeks. She had plans to set out the next day. Paying for the full week was a failsafe in case she needed a place to return to in a rush.

With a stagger in her step and a dizziness that had not been there when she first sat down, she made her way up the stairs and to her room, last door on the right. It was a simple room, clean for a tavern. A cot rested in the corner. A table with two chairs took up most of the space in the little alcove to the right. A washroom was just beyond that. The lock on the door worked, though any experienced thief could pick it in a second. Becoming friends with Isabela had taken away her faith in locks a long time ago.

Setting her backpack by the door, she began to unbuckle her belt and let her robes slide from her shoulders. The rain had seemed continuous since Anders had blown up the Chantry, and she had never felt so soaked through in her entire life. There seemed to be no place dry. Hanging the enchanted garments over the table, she sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. She had paid for the elves to carry hot water up to her room an hour ago, so it was most likely cold. Heading toward the bathroom, she was careful to shut the wooden door before stripping down completely.

Leaving her clothing in a pile at the door, a blade nearby, she poured the cold water into the wash basin and whispered a few words to warm it up. When it was near steaming, she crawled in and let the hot water soak away her aching muscles. Where she was going she didn't know. With the others gone their separate ways, she didn't have a destination in mind. An apostate couldn't live anywhere long, and she didn't have the coin to buy a permanent place anyway. Surely once all the hype died down she would be able to live more peacefully?

Hawke chuckled darkly. Even as the thought came, her own mind dismissed it. Already stories from Ferelden were making their way across the sea. Circles all over were using her name to incite riots, overthrowing the Templars and all they stood for. A pair of apostates had risen up and defeated the mighty Chantry. Why couldn't the rest of them follow?

She ducked under the water and let the heat warm her flesh and fill her ears. She ached. She ached for her home in Kirkwall, a place that had finally become home instead of just a place to stay. She missed her mabari war hound that she had needed to leave behind. She missed Sandal and Bodahn and Varric. Most of all, she missed Anders. It wasn't a thought she would admit out loud, but she did miss him. She missed the sound of his voice, his feet on the stairwell, his bad jokes, and his attempt at playing Orana's lute. Even more than that, she missed the chaos around him—that at any time he could become a demon that fought for what he wanted. And his touch. Oh, she wanted that, that which made her toes curl and made an ache settle between her legs. His rough hands, his gentle kisses. A revolutionary he may have been, but he had been the kindest lover she had ever had.

Eventually the ache stopped being mental and started to be physical. She couldn't breathe, and she surfaced with her hair full of soap suds. Laughing softly at her own folly, she blew a few bubbles into the air and set her ankle over the side of the bath. Wanting for the past never solved anything. She had learned that after her mother had died. Still, it didn't stop the pain settling in her stomach. She had left so much behind. Maybe she should have gone with Isabela on her ship after all.

The water grew cold, and Hawke grew tired of reheating it. When her toes and fingers were pruned and wrinkled, she finally stood up in the bath and wrapped a towel around her torso. She grabbed another to dry her short, red hair when a knock sounded at the door. At first she glanced curiously at it. She expected no one and hadn't ordered any food. Then she sighed as she realized who it probably was. Krista had probably brought her wine, with herself as a side dish.

"Krista, I told you I didn't want any company tonight," she said as she opened the door, drying her hair at the same time. The second she pulled the door back, a hand darted forward and crashed into her chest. Magic filled the air, crackling like lightning as power exploded between her attacker's hand and her body, sending her sprawling so far back that she actually hit the opposite wall with a thud. Her head cracked against the weak paneling, making her see stars as she gasped in surprise. Her head hung forward, and for a moment she couldn't move.

A foot kicked the door shut, and she whipped her head up, getting to her feet. She summoned fire, feeling the heated flames lick at her fingers until she saw who it was. "You son of a bitch," she snarled, baring her teeth as she threw a ball of flame right at him. He turned around just in time to duck, watching as the fireball seared the door.

"Wait, Hawke!" he cried, but she sent electricity at him next, singing his hair as it whipped past. The sound of crackling lightning filled the room and burst against the wall. She dove for her staff, fingers cinching her towel tight around her and whipping around to place the blade at the end of her weapon right at his throat. His hand was raised as if he were going to try to touch her, stop her. He held them both up in surrender. "I'm not here to fight."

"Oh, yeah?" she challenged, blowing a strand of wet hair out of her eyes. "Do you greet all of your ex-lovers like that, then?"

Anders sighed, and she took the time to look him over. He was no worse for wear, a little tired like she was. The dark circles around his eyes mirrored her own and that of Fenris. For an apostate on the run, he seemed clean and unharmed. His staff was still on his back. The fine, black feathers of his coat were singed from her fireball.

"What in the name of the Void are you doing here, Anders? You should be as far away from Kirkwall as is humanly possible right now," she snapped at him, using her blade to force his chin up.

Something like a challenge shimmered in his eyes. "I didn't think you cared."

"I don't," she frowned. "The last thing I expected was to find you at my door, hitting me with force magic of all things. You would use my own techniques to fight me."

"Do I look like I'm performing magic right now?" he demanded. "You have me at your mercy. You win."

"I don't care about that," she told him, pressing the tip even deeper into the hollow of his throat. "Tell me why you are here."

Anders frowned. "Look, I'm sorry I attacked you, but I needed to get into the room. I doubt you would have let me in willingly. It was a preemptive strike, and I'm a coward. Now can you please lower that thing?"

Instead of lowering it, she pressed further so he was forced to back up or have his throat gashed. "Talk, Anders, or I'll cut your pretty throat."

"Hawke—" he started but cut himself off, reaching behind for his own staff with startling alacrity and slamming it into hers. It fell from her hands with a clatter, and he swung around to smack the steel hard into her calves. With wet skin, the collision hurt worse than it should have. Overbalancing, she felt onto her back with a grunt, hand darting out to grab her stave where it had landed. The hard tip of Anders's weapon came down to rest at the hollow of her throat just as hers pointed at his stomach. If she moved, he'd cut off her head. If he moved, she would gut him.

Anders glared down at her, but then his eyes softened. The towel had fallen partially off, giving him a delightful view from her stomach over to her thigh. She must have looked quiet harmless and delicate in that moment. "I don't want to fight."

"Then you shouldn't have come here," she growled.

"I came to talk," he told her.

"We have nothing to talk about."

"I think he do."

"You're wrong. Now get off me," she snapped, gathering electricity in her hands until it shot up the length of her staff. Anders opened his mouth to say something just as the accumulation reached his belly. The magic exploded with the force of a handful of blackpowder, throwing him across the room. Thankfully, he took his weapon with him. Had it fallen on her throat, she wasn't sure she would be breathing.

Massaging the place with the point had dug into her throat, she crossed the room in three swift strides and smacked the hilt of her weapon right on his chest. Anders let out a breath of air in surprise. The blade was up by her hand, and the feathers and beads tickled her fingers. "Despite what you think, I believe you when you say you came here to talk. Why assassinate me? You've never been able to best me in a fight. I'm useful to you as I stand up for mages. The only thing I have a problem with is that you came here thinking that I would listen."

"Actually I didn't come here thinking that, hence my attack at the door," he pointed out.

"If you fully grasped how much I wouldn't want to listen to you, you would never have come in the first place," she said cruelly. "Now get out." Smacking his shoulder with the end of her stave like a child that needed to be swatted, she turned to place the weapon against the wall and walked over to the bed. With her back to him, she clenched her towel even tighter and closed her eyes, wishing him away. However brave, however tough, it was hard to see him again. Her stomach ached.

She could hear him getting up behind her, soft footsteps like pinpricks in her heart as flashes of him creeping up the stairs of her mansion with a gift in the middle of the night came back with full force. But the footsteps stopped, and she threw a glance over her shoulder. "You don't really want me to leave, do you?" he asked softly, hand hovering over the door knob. He was giving her a choice. It had always been her choice.

She couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped her lips as she turned around and put a hand over her eyes. "You warned me that you would break my heart," she gave an ironic smile. "You warned me, and I didn't listen. I suppose that's my fault." A pregnant silence followed, and she felt like crying. Anders could have picked a better night to drop in, one during which she wasn't buzzing with alcohol and emotion. "Sit down, Anders," she said at last, dropping her hand and meeting his eyes. "Let me get dressed, and you can tell me what the issue is."

She didn't wait for him to acquiesce, walking past him to grab her backpack and then head to the bathroom. As she passed, his magic fluttered over her skin, tiny and friendly sparks just welcoming her. Ignoring it, she closed the wooden door and let the towel fall. Pulling on her breast binding and underclothes, she left her backpack in the bathroom and walked out to where her robes were. Anders had taken a seat at the table, staring down at his hands. Hawke shrugged her clothes on over her shoulders, not bothering to cinch it closed with a belt. Instead, she simply closed it with her hands and crossed her arms as she sat on the opposite side of him. The feathered and fur-lined edges came together at her torso but separated at her knees, leaving her naked legs to the cold. It was a sobering factor if nothing else.

"So what is it, Anders?" she asked him, dropping her hand on to the table as she leaned forward. "You need me to save a group of apostates? Want me to help you get out of Kirkwall? Is there a problem with the mage rebellion that needs fixing? I've been drinking, and I'm tired, so if you need me to do any fighting it will have to wait until morning."

When he glanced up, his eyes were full of strain. "You make it sound like that's all I ever ask of you."

She snorted in a very unlady-like fashion and dropped her gaze, cocking her head to the side. "That _is _all you ask of me." She drummed her fingers on the table. The bitterness that leaked into her voice wasn't lost on her. "You asked me to help with the mage underground, to find evidence of the tranquil solution, to talk to the grand cleric while you did what was necessary to free the mages. Everything, every conversation we've ever had has been about magic. Even when we…." Hawke paused and swallowed, "even our most intimate conversations were tainted by the mage's plight."

"You and I have a very different memory of our time together," he argued, frowning.

Hawke raised her head, feeling anger creeping into her tone. "I suspect that if we had the same memories, we would still be together." Waving her hand, she said, "But you didn't come to talk about our failed relationship. What do you need from me?"

"Actually," he cleared his throat, "that's why I'm here. I don't want to talk about the plight of mages. I want to talk about us."

How could he pull at her heartstrings so? Her voice sounded hollow, barely a whisper. "You betrayed me."

"I couldn't tell you what I was planning because—"

Anger broke her calm façade. She stood, knocking the chair behind her to the ground, slamming her palm on the table and making it shake. Fire licked at her fingertips, spreading across the wood. "Because what if I had wanted to help!" she shouted. "What if I had wanted to stop you? What if I had wanted to keep you from ruining both of our lives, for forcing us both on the run, for killing hundreds of innocent people? What if I had wanted to keep you from putting my life in danger? Orsino almost _killed _me, you godless, self-centered son of a bitch!" The table creaked and shuddered under the flames, collapsing in the middle as the heat burned a hole right through it.

Seeing his shocked face, she whipped around to stare at the opposite wall. Her small frame was trembling with fury. "You killed those people," she told him. "Maybe I'm not as good a person as I thought I was, because I don't really care about that. You're a murderer. So am I. That's not what hurt." Clenching her fist, she bit down on her lip. "That's not what broke my heart. The fact that you didn't trust me…that I told you _everything_…and it didn't matter."

"Hawke," he said after a stunned silence, standing up. "I do trust you."

"No, you don't," she snapped at him. "You're an abomination, Anders." She heard his steps freeze behind her. "You've been possessed by a demon. You've done some crazy things, broken into the chantry, murdered Templars, asked me to murder them for you. All these things, these crazy things, they were warning bells for me not to trust you. Yet I did. I trusted you to watch my back, and you wouldn't let me watch yours." She turned around and felt the shame burning in her cheeks as tears fell down her face. "I hate you. Do you know that? I hate you."

"I'm sorry, Hawke," he said to her in that soft voice that used to whisper sweet nothings into her ears. "I'm so sorry." She wiped the tears away. Behind him, the table had turned to smoldering ashes. "I've thought about what I would say since I've been on the run. I've tried to focus on my task, but it's even more difficult without you by my side. You were…sometimes you were the only thing keeping me going."

She hugged her shoulders. "That's not true. Justice would keep you going even if you were dead."

"I still love you, Hawke," he said, coming closer and putting his hands on her shoulders. They were warm and dry and loving. His magic sparked against hers, buzzing electricity mixing with the pleasant sensation of alcohol thrumming in her veins. "I love you more than anything in the world, even if you hate me."

"I believe you," she whispered, staring into his eyes. Bottomless. Worth drowning in. Her heart ached. "Just as I believed in you," she smiled sadly, thumb coming up to brush his cheek. "I always believed in you and more the fool I." Gently removing his hands from her shoulders, she took a step back. "I should have listened to you in that cold, dark clinic when you asked me not to fall for you. It was sound advice, you know? But Isabela always said there two things you can't control: the sea and a woman's heart." Backing up suddenly until her back bumped into the wall, she slid down to the floor.

"Hawke—" he started, but she cut him off again.

"Would you hate me if I said that I wish you hadn't come here tonight?" she asked, inclining her head like a curious bird.

He gave a soft chuckle and knelt down in front of her, putting a hand on her exposed ankle. "I could never hate you."

"All I wanted to do was get drunk and sleep as late as I wanted," she told him, allowing herself a smile. "It's not been easy on the run."

"As I recall," he answered. With a sigh, she reached out her hand, palm up, fingers splayed. He took it and kissed her knuckles, and it was just like it had been back at her mansion in Kirkwall for a moment. Anders was many things: a murderer, revolutionary, madman, mage, and lover. He was deceitful and painful to be with. It was as he had said so many years ago. Their relationship was a disaster, but she couldn't live without it.

"I hate you," she whispered again, watching the pain flash in his eyes very carefully. "I do, I swear. At least, that's what I keep telling myself every night that I go to sleep and try not to dream of you."

His eyes softened, and they were not the eyes of justice. They were the eyes of the man she loved, had loved for half a decade. "For three years, I kept myself from you because I didn't want to hurt you. I tried to remain in control, but your damn teasing got to my head. You're a menace, but you're the loveliest menace I've ever seen. I wish I were a better man, Hawke, I really do."

Perhaps it was impolite to laugh breathlessly in that moment, but it didn't stop her. She untwined their fingers and tilted his jaw up. He moved closer, kneeling between her spread legs. Musk and incense and blood washed over her, the smell so distinctly him that she almost felt at home. His warmth was a nice contrast to the cool wall behind her, pressing into her flush skin. "A better man, Anders?" she whispered. "A better man? You fought tooth and nail for what you believed in. You tried to save a young girl's foolish heart from breaking into a million pieces. You and I, together, saved half the apostates in Kirkwall. We killed slavers. We set Fenris free and found Aveline a husband and got Isabela her dream ship. We singlehandedly stopped the Arishok, and we kept Meredith from slaughtering a city full of innocent mages. And you saved my brother from death in the Deep Roads. There is no better man in all of Thedas."

"I wish that were true, but you know as well as I do that it isn't," he told her seriously. "You left out all the awful things I've done."

"Technicalities," she said, repeating an old argument of theirs. "The things I've done are no better."

"I'm sorry for all this," he said suddenly, remorsefully as he played with her hair. They were like young lovers again, her wrapped in his arms, talking about a future they might have. It was all very nostalgic, and she found a certain peace in that. "I'm sorry. It was the last thing that I wanted."

"Hmm," she hummed, "do you know what I wanted? The only thing I wanted?"

"What?"

"I wanted you," she told him, her murky eyes meeting his clear, brown ones. "That was all."

"You got me," he reminded her gently, becoming much more serious. His fingers traced the faded tattoos on brow, and she shivered.

Hand coming up to grip his finger, she leaned forward and kissed him. It lasted for only a second, but that second was what made her begin to ache all over again. "I got the mage, that's all. I got the mage fighting for mages," she said, and her voice was very quiet. "That was a powerful thing, but I'm selfish. I wanted the man, too."

He put his hands on her waist and lifted her up. They were standing, and her robes had fallen open. The vulnerable, warm flesh of her belly was pressed up against his cloak, the cold and buttons and belt buckles biting into her soft skin. The pain was delicious, and she arched against him even as his hands separated the cloak even more, calloused fingers resting on the small of her back as he breathed against her neck. "I felt the same, sometimes," he whispered in her ear, husky and dark. "I got the Champion when I wanted the woman."

"Ah," she breathed, feeling the friction of his stubble against her the slender slope of her collarbone, "the Champion and the mage couldn't be lovers. Can the man and the woman?" Casually, she looped her arms around his neck, drawing his heat even closer.

Anders let out a breath suddenly and pulled back, their noses almost touching, lips tantalizingly close. She felt herself shudder, but he seemed confused. Hawke forced herself to focus while he spoke, trying to ignore the feeling his hands were giving her. "Hawke, I—I want you, believe me, I do. It's just, there's a difference between making up and having sex. I want the first one."

"Always so serious," she chided, reaching up to smooth back his fine hair. "Are you asking to try again?"

"Yes," he answered immediately, gripping her tighter like a lifeline. "I love you, and I hate being without you. This time I'll tell you everything, my darkest secrets if that's what you wish. Even if it hurts you. If you ask, the answer is yours."

"Thank you," she said, kissing him. Her fingers reached up to pull his hair free. "I know that's asking a lot of you. I'm not blind. So thank you. And as for making up, I'm selfish. I want both. Can I have both?" Her hands slid down his sides, over his taut, flat belly to pull at the buckle around his waist. He groaned into her neck and shoved her further against the wall.

"You are selfish," he teased. Slowly, his hand traced the shape of her slender neck, fingers stopping at her jaw where his thumb brushed her lips. With a tenderness one couldn't find in whores or even some lovers, he drew her into a kiss that was as loving as she had remembered.

She broke it, and keeping her eye leveled with his, slowly unhooked the shoulder piece of his outfit, letting it fall to the floor. Gently, he soothed her back with his calloused hands, warm and familiar and rough. Then a sudden hunger seemed to come over her, and she _grabbed _the back of his neck and crashed their mouths together, teeth clacking so hard that he split her lip. The pain spurred her on further, and she latched onto him, legs going around his waist. He lifted her up, looping an arm around her back and guiding them to the small bed. They paused just before it, and he soothed her split lip with his tongue, all heat and love, nipping on the skin, kissing down her jaw. She ached, feeling that burning want between her legs.

He leaned her down and set her on the bed, kneeling between her legs as he stared up into her eyes and brushed off the robe around her shoulders. She tangled her fingers in his hair, the silky tresses soft against her skin. He bent down and began placing small, open-mouthed kisses against the inside of her thighs. Kneeling there, it was almost as if he were worshipping her. His tongue delved into her belly button, making her arch as she pulled his hair. He didn't seem to mind and reached around to pull her closer by her hips until her knees were tucked over his shoulders. His tongue ghosted right over her enticing heat, the sensation traveling through her small clothes and over her sex so that she let out a small moan. He did it again and again and again, drawing mewling noises that she tried to quiet with a loose hand over her mouth.

"Anders," she whined, pulling him closer with her locked legs, and he chuckled, sending hot air right over her. Gently removing her knees from around his neck, he stood up and began unbuckling his complex outfit. On spongy bones and shaky knees, she got to her feet and helped him, pulling here and there to remove his robes. As he kicked off his boots, she yanked him down into a heated kiss, drawing his naked skin towards her. When the boots were pushed off to the side, he wrapped his arms around her and gently leaned her down onto the bed, careful with his weight.

It was a dance they were familiar with, yet she felt different somehow. She was lighter, more carefree, and more desperate for his touches than ever before. Every brush of his lips or touch of his fingers sent goose bumps across her skin, her magic mixing with his own in a solution of pure want and desire and familiarity. His tongue traced designs on her chest and belly which arched with every careful nip or suck he gave. Lightning sparked over his fingers, jolting her pleasure center as his fingers wandered down there, just teasing and hovering, never giving her what she wanted. Then he pulled her breast binding off and tended to her there, wet tongue making her nipples hard and wanton, pressing into his chest.

When she was a puddle of writhing pleasure, finally he moved his hand past the wet barrier of her panties and slid his fingers inside of her. Her nails clamped onto his back, pleading with him, moaning into his ear and panting. He angled his fingers and brushed her sex, thrusting in and out. She groaned, lacing her arms around his neck and muffling the noise as best she could with her lips. His own desire pressed against her bent knee, hot and hard. As he was pleasuring her, she reached down to cup his arousal, drowning the groan with her lips and tongue.

But she forgot about him as she dug her nails harder into his back, his fingers pushing forward, angling, working her into a right mess. Eventually she couldn't take it anymore and pushed his hand away, reaching down to pull his underclothes off. "Please, Anders, I need you," she panted into his ear, holding on for dear life. His breathless laughter wasn't lost on her, so arrogant in the bedroom.

He didn't wait very long, pushing inside of her with one long thrust that made her cry out into his shoulder and bite down. He let his weight settle on her, resting for just a moment, brushing hair out of her eyes and kissing her sweet lips. She was burning, she realized, the desire for him just as intoxicating, as dangerous as any wildfire. The sweet smell and musk of sex was slowly filling the room, their sweat making it easier to move, to thrust. She kept her hold on him, hearing him whisper in her ear. He loved her. He loved her. He wouldn't leave her again.

With a shudder, she felt her orgasm wash over her in waves of sweet bliss that almost made her want to cry. He lay kissing her afterward, peppering her shining breast with licks and promises. As she came down, the rest of the tavern came into focus. Downstairs the screech of moving chairs, casual laughter, soft music rose up to her ears past the whooshing sound of her frantic heart trying to slow. She was sticky and sweat-slicked, and she felt like she needed a bath again as the cool air dried it on her skin. She cupped his face and kissed him chastely, drawing it out as long as possible until they broke for air. Her hand rested over his heart, and she stared into his bottomless eyes.

The frantic pulse beneath her fingers made her want to cry. Maybe he was a murderer. Maybe he was insane and an abomination. But he was still human. The fluttering in his chest proved that. The love in his eyes overflowing as he stared straight at her, that was all the proof she needed. Justice had become an irreversible part of him, and she was okay with that. Sometimes the cause would drive a wedge between them and take away something she had realized she didn't want to live without, but that was okay, too. Her title as champion was practically the same thing.

"As warriors for a cause we didn't pick, perhaps a happy ending is out of the question," she whispered against his lips. "But if you will permit me, I would like to stay by your side and be as happy as I can for as long as I can."

"Seems like a good plan to me."

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**I'll try to write less sex more romance next time. Expect Fenris and male Hawke soon. I hope. Thanks for reading. Review please.**


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